IN the morning, a Sunday morning, shadows of sea and adumbrants of rock in her eyes horseback in leather boots and
leather gauntlets by the sea.
In the evening, a Sunday evening, a rope of pearls on her white shoulders and a speaking, brooding black velvet,
relapsing to the voiceless battering Russian marches on a piano drive of blizzards across Nebraska.
Yes, riding horseback on hills by the sea sitting at the ivory keys in black velvet, a rope of pearls on white
shoulders.